Fireworks were tonight, but we didn’t have our usual invite to the ritzy house on the river to see them. Darn! Instead my husband and I drove into town and planted ourselves on lawn chairs in the middle of the police department parking lot! The view was nice enough, but the atmosphere just wasn’t the same, as you can imagine.
I love seeing fireworks over the water. One of these days I’ll get out in a boat and see them on the river that way. In our town growing up, the display was set in a dirt field; I can remember crying through it every year because I hated the noise so much. I must have spoiled it for everyone within earshot.
I’m looking forward to the day off tomorrow and have nothing planned!
Can you see the happiness in this man’s face and his sense of good fortune for having such handsome sons? This is among my favorite photos of him; from a time before I was born and a time that I imagine to have been among his most contented.
As fate would have it, he lost his eldest son Neil, the freckle-faced redhead on the left and another son, Stephen, before I was even born. Two brothers I claim but never knew.
I wonder about whether he was a different father before the loss of two of his sons. I’d guess he was and think this photo must give a hint of the man he was before.
I can’t see a weeping willow tree without being reminded of the one that towered over my childhood home. Probably I’m remembering it wrong, but my father told the story that ours was a gift from a neighbor who couldn’t get it to grow in their yard, so we ended up with this wisp of a tree that languished for a few years before it set about dominating our home landscape. There were other trees, lesser trees, that grew in the side yards; a few messy sycamores and a crabapple, but the weeping willow overshadowed them all.
Planting it in the middle of the backyard wasn’t a wise choice, as it eventually grew so large as to block all sun from the patio and my brother’s vegetable garden. It was twice as tall as the house and its roots found their way into the sewer pipes. The limbs were a constant threat to roof and windows. Eventually my father had it cut down after a large part of it came through the kitchen window one night during a storm.
Once it was down, the backyard never felt the same; there was too much sun and too much space. No more would it be one of the first trees in the neighborhood to show color in spring. There weren’t any kids in the house by then to climb it or attach a rope swing to it.
I wonder if the new family that owns my dad’s house now will plant some other tree in that empty space, although I suppose it doesn’t look as if anything is missing to their eyes. But I remember the tree that stood so tall there, and am reminded of it when I see the first green of a willow’s wispy branches. All that’s missing from this one is the rope swing.
Even after 13+ years of marriage, it’s still sort of awkward-feeling for me to call my mother-in-law *mom*, but I’m getting better about it. I never felt comfortable calling my father-in-law *dad* or even *Hank* as he would have preferred it, instead it was always the formal Mr. followed by our family name. That was just as well, I guess; he couldn’t often seem to even remember my name, and instead called me *girl* with the sweetest Southern drawl. The rest of his daughters-in-law were not so tenderly regarded as I.
She’s been bugging me for the last year or so to choose a piece of crystal from her china cabinet that I’d like to have. I’ve avoided doing so, partly because I have no need of any crystal, but more because I understand the thinking that’s behind her wanting to give away these treasured things. She’s been thinking and talking that way for a few years now since my father-in-law passed away. For a very long time she was depressed and talked of wanting to go be with her dear Hank. Her first great-grandchild seems to have turned her around and I’m glad for that, but still she has this need to give away her things.
So I relented yesterday and took this Waterford crystal vase and filled it with roses. It’s the perfect size for a small bouquet of very short-stemmed flowers, yet seems out of place in my no frills early americana style dining room. I like that sort of contrast and how it reminds me of her and how different our lives are. I chose it because rather than being something to be treasured and tucked away, it’s a beautiful thing that I can put to use. And my taking it made her happy.
Here’s a silly Easter photo from 1973. Maybe I just finished tramping through my mother’s tulips and that accounts for why I look so gleeful! Although it’s probably hard to be anything but merry when you’re not quite 3 and full of candy.
Looking through old photo albums, most Easter photos were posed on this side of the house with a few bedraggled tulips in the background or my brothers and I were posed beneath the blooming crabapple that was on the other side of the house. There’s not much blooming here in NJ now besides daffodils, so I wonder what parents will do in the morning after church for photos.
Growing up, the night before Easter was when we did eggs. I remember my mother had a particular pot she always used to boil eggs in – it had some type of white coating on it – and I remember the house filled with the smell of vinegar. We were always very anxious to get started, but she never was and now that I’ve colored eggs with little kids a few times, I understand her reluctance to have to clean up afterwards. By that time we were bored with eggs and she had the mess to contend with.
The Easter Bunny always brought baskets of candy and hid our colored eggs. There was usually an egg hidden in my slippers and the baskets were usually hidden behind the drapes in the dining room. The rest of the eggs might be hidden anyhere in the house and I wonder how my parents kept track of all of them in case we didn’t find a few. After our Easter egg hunt we got dressed and went to church, came home for photos and then made the long trip to my grandparent’s in North Jersey for dinner with the relatives.
If you click on the little pic at right, you ought to be able to read a letter I wrote to the Easter Bunny when I was nine. My brother Brian found it when we were cleaning out my dad’s house and thought I should save it. I get a laugh from reading my not so subtle suggestions about how much I liked candy on Easter!
Wishing a joyful Easter to all. What will you be doing? Feel like sharing any Easter memories?
When I’m out and about running errands on Saturday afternoons I like to listen to The Saturday Show with Jonathan Schwartz on WNYC. It’s an interesting mix of Jazz, classical and American Standards with a little Neil Young mixed in for good measure. Not my normal choice in music, but every so often I hear something that just knocks my socks off and I appreciate being exposed to good music that I might not otherwise listen to. Today I heard a medley of In the Wee Small Hours/Leaving Again by jazz singer Kurt Elling – his first album will be released in April and while I don’t know that I’d buy the whole album, I’ll be sure to look for that track on iTunes.
My favorite part of The Saturday Show is that he plays nearly a full hour of Frank Sinatra. Hearing Sinatra this way brings me back to when I was a kid and a similar radio show my mother listened to that played nothing but Sinatra standards on Saturday night. She loved his music and always tried to grab one of my big brothers for a dance around the kitchen. I smile thinking of it.
Other music that I learned to like growing up was whatever my older brothers were listening to. I know all the songs by The Eagles, Styx, Kansas, Boston, and Lynyrd Skynyrd. I got way more than my fill of Lynyrd Skynyrd; my brother Brian played the drums and had a band that used to practice in our rec room and they played Freebird and Sweet Home Alabama over and over again. I can’t exactly say that I smile remembering that!
What music reminds you of your childhood? What makes you want to grab someone for a twirl across the kitchen linoleum?
I’m overly sentimental about my rabbits. That’s probably true for plenty of us when it comes to our pets, but for lots of people the definition of *pet* doesn’t extend far enough to include rabbits. I figure that’s only because they haven’t had the chance to fall under the spell of a long-eared companion yet. Lots of people don’t *get* how or why you’d keep a rabbit in the house, or keep a rabbit as a pet at all. Sure, they get into trouble and you have to mind their teeth on your furniture and electrical cords, but that’s easy enough to do. Having a house rabbit is a lot like living with a puppy that never grows up; there’s occasional puddles and they’ll chew the laces right off your sneakers if you leave them under the coffee table, but what’s not to love about the exuberance of a puppy, despite the havoc they cause?
Not all rabbits are so loveable, depending on their breed or temperament. Some have been abused or mishandled or ignored and never really get over it, but we love them despite the huge chip they carry on their shoulders. Often these are the ones who appreciate the chance at a new lifestyle the most, even if they won’t show it. They box and lunge and try to bite, but they dance while they think you’re not looking. They pretend to be ferocious even as they melt beneath a kind hand that touches them with love.
Mr. Bean, in the photo above, was loveable from the start and remained so for all of his short life. He was the first of my rabbits that I fell totally in love with and I still think of him and the ways he endeared himself to my husband and I. He’s still safe in my heart all these years later.
My first visit to the Adirondacks was on our honeymoon. We spent most of the week in Lake Placid NY and I fell in love with the mountains and all the trees. It snowed day after day during our stay. Neither of us are skiers, but we took advantage of the weather with lots of snowball fights, ice-skating, and evenings by a warm fire. We moved from one bed and breakfast to another, getting a sampling of what each had to offer. Two were rustic-type ski lodges, and the third was a fancy Victorian style place that made us a fabulous dinner on Christmas Eve.
Being away from home at Christmas was actually really nice because we were removed from all the usual hustle and bustle. Christmas night was a little lonely and we had to struggle to find a place that was open for dinner; if I remember right, I think we found an Italian place and had dinner early – traditional lasagna, of course.
I’ve been back to Lake Placid and Whiteface Mountain (pictured at right) many times since, but always in early summer when the fields are covered with blooming orange hawkweed and the sound of a running stream is somewhere in the distance. The Adirondacks are beautiful then, but seeing it for the first time, so stark and white and cold, is something I will always remember. I have dreams of moving there, when we’re old and gray, to live beside some quiet lake in the middle of nowhere. When I imagine that day in the future, it’s always a winter’s day with snow falling and a view of the ice on the lake outside my front window.
Today is our wedding anniversary – 13 years ago I was at the most expensive party I barely remember! I picked out a few of my favorite photos to share – bear with me as I reminisce. It was so cold on that Friday night when we were married. I arrived at the church in the traditional way, but my husband and his groomsmen came on the back of a firetruck – too bad there’s no pics of that! Our church was gorgeous – a friend of mine says that to this day it was the most beautiful wedding she has ever been to. There were candles burning in the windows and the pews were decorated with sprigs of pine and gold bows that a friend from work made for me. We also had the church bell-ringers playing carols while the guests waited for the show to start. Detail of my flowers (white roses, stephanotis, and holly with just a few red berries) and dress (off the rack on sale!) and beautiful wedding rings.I remember being totally surpised by the cold and people tossing rice at us as we left the church – this is one of my favorite pics of the day.
Our destination hidden in the mists.” – Joan Walsh Anglund
This is my parent’s wedding photo. I wasn’t sure of the year and had to check it on the inscription inside my mother’s wedding band which I wear sometimes. The month and day I know because it is so close to my own wedding anniversary on 12/17.
Although my father probably told the story of their wedding lots of times, I’m beginning to forget many of the details that I’m sure my dad included in his telling of it. He was stationed in France with the Air Force during the Korean War during the time leading up to the wedding. I think my mother may have loaned my father the money to buy the engagement ring and she completed much of the planning via letters to my dad in France. She paid most of the bill for the wedding, with her father throwing in an extra keg of beer for the party afterwards.
Beyond that I don’t know, but like any two young people starting out together, they were hopeful and in love as they said their vows of marriage. The time between then and now: 52 years, 5 children, 2 grandchildren, and countless moments of joy and heartbreak.
*Note: My brother Kevin left his response to the Chrsitmas Meme in the comments on that post. He has a good sense of humor and an interesting perspective as the *big brother*. Have a look and a laugh.
Just me rambling about birds, books, bunnies, or whatever!
Fireworks were tonight, but we didn’t have our usual invite to the ritzy house on the river to see them. Darn! Instead my husband and I drove into town and planted ourselves on lawn chairs in the middle of the police department parking lot! The view was nice enough, but the atmosphere just wasn’t the same, as you can imagine.
